


Falling

by sinemoras09



Category: Heroes (TV 2006)
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-29
Updated: 2007-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29960400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinemoras09/pseuds/sinemoras09
Summary: Gen ficlets about Sylar. Fill-in for canon.





	1. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eden does surveillance.

There's something wrong with him. Eden can’t place it. Something with the way he carries himself, she thinks, or maybe the slight inflection of his voice when he greets her. And when they pass each other in the stairwell, she climbing up and he walking down, she can’t help but shudder when his arm accidentally brushes against hers. She rushes up to Chandra’s, finally working up the nerve to ask him who he is. 

“Who?” Chandra asks, and Eden motions over to the kitchen window. Even though they're several stories above the ground, she can see the man standing motionless at the corner of the street, people moving past him like water around a stone. “Oh,” Chandra says, and he brightens. “That’s a pupil of mine, Gabriel Gray, although he prefers to be called ‘Sylar.’ Bit of a superhero kick, but I think we can forgive him that. He’s actually quite intelligent,” Chandra says.

“He scares me,” Eden says, and Chandra laughs.

“He’s eccentric, but he’s really quite harmless,” Chandra says. "Perhaps I should introduce you, sometime."

Eden doesn't answer. Instead she frowns and looks out the window. Gabriel Gray—Sylar—is nothing but a dark comma below them, standing at the corner and getting swallowed up by the crowd.

*****

She rounds the corner, carrying a paper bag full of groceries.

“Eden?”

She starts, looking up. The light catches his face and she gasps in recognition. “Oh my God, Gabriel, hi.” Her voice is reflexively strained, poised to throw a command his way should she need to. “I almost didn’t recognize you—I didn’t know you wear glasses,” she says.

“It’s no big secret,” Sylar says. She can almost see him start to smile. “Do you need help?” he asks. He motions to her groceries.

“Oh no, I’m fine," Eden says. She shifts the groceries against her hip. "Thanks, though.” 

She quickly turns and starts heading up, but the bottom of the paper bag wrenches open and an orange rolls down the stairs. “Shit!” she says. She struggles to keep everything else from tumbling out. 

He's standing at the bottom of the stairwell watching her, the fingers of his left hand making a crooked C. He lowers his arm slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving hers. 

"You sure you don't need help?" he asks. She clutches her bag protectively.

"No, I'm fine," she says, and she hurries back up the stairs.

*****

She's working on her field report when it starts to rain. 

It's thundering outside, and the rain comes down in sheets. Eden leans against the couch and curls her legs underneath her, watching the lightning. It's dark out and her face is reflected on the window, orange and pale against the dark glass. Lightning flashes and she sees _him_ staring back at her, the sharp angles of his face illuminated by lightning before disappearing into the dark.

Eden shrieks and jumps back, her notebooks clattering on the floor. 

She rushes to the window but no one is outside. Of _course_ no one is, she's on the seventh floor. Unless the man can fly, there was no way he could be by her window.

And then she thinks, _telekinesis_. Her throat tightens at the realization.

Her hand is shaking when she dials Bennet's number.

*****

It's midnight and she's rushing back. Her meeting with Bennet was brief, but his instructions to her were clear: watch him, but don't interfere. 

Now she's at her door, fumbling for her keys. "You shouldn't be out this late," someone says, and Eden whirls around. Sylar is standing behind her. 

"What are you doing here?" she asks. She flattens herself against the door.

"I was looking for Suresh, but he isn't home," Sylar says. He's standing uncomfortably close, cornering her with his height. "I thought maybe you'd know where he is."

"I think he's working nights this week," Eden says, and suddenly she's afraid. "His cab isn't there anymore."

Sylar steps closer and she shrinks away. 

"I'm not myself," he says. "Maybe you can help me." 

And then he dips forward, his face just inches away from hers. She's breathing hard and she can almost feel his lips hovering above hers, his breath soft and warm. And maybe because it's habit, she finds herself leaning closer to him, their lips almost brushing. "I'll let him know you stopped by," she says, but he doesn't answer, just stares at her instead. His eyes are wild and rimmed with dark circles, predatory and completely magnetic, and Eden can't turn away. 

She opens her mouth to speak, but before she can say anything he shoves her against the door, his hips slamming against her groin. She cries out and he grinds into her, his hot mouth pressing against hers. She throws her arms around his neck and pulls him closer, her mouth open and her head thrown back. She's wet and his hardness scrapes against her clit, and she can't stop the soft, sobbing little sounds from escaping her throat. 

And then he pulls away. She slumps by the door, shaking from unrealized sex. Fear and shame overwhelm her and she hugs herself tightly, pulling her sweater around her like a shield.

"Bitch," he says, and then he leans forward. " _Whore_."

And then he leaves, his shadow skimming over her as he disappears into the dark.


	2. Brick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oneshot. Claude fights Sylar. Gen-fic, AU. Takes place after Landslide.

“I can hear you,” Sylar says.

“I bet you can,” Claude says, and the beam comes out from nowhere and smashes into Sylar’s face.

Claude throws his coat over Sylar’s head and tackles him to the ground. 

“That’s the tricky thing about invisibility,” Claude says. “You never know what the other guy’s got on him.” Sylar struggles but Claude is stronger. “See friend, I know how things work too,” Claude says. “For instance, I know that telekinetics can’t use their ability if they can’t see what they’re manipulating.”

Sylar grunts. Claude tightens his grip around him.

“You’re a scrawny little thing, aren’t you?” Claude says. “Frankly, I’m disappointed. I would have thought someone like you would have a little more weight on them.”

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” Sylar says.

“Actually, I do,” Claude says. “You’re that pissant clockmaker scaring all my friends. I’d kill you right now, but I promised an old friend of mine I’d keep you alive.” And before Sylar can react, Claude smashes his head against the concrete floor. 

Claude pulls his coat off of Sylar’s face. He doesn’t want the little wanker bleeding all over his coat. 

*****

Claude props his feet up and watches him, silently. Sylar is slumped over in the chair, the black blindfold around his eyes. For all his powers, Sylar is for once completely prostrate. All it took was a brick to the hand for Sylar to fess up and enumerate his abilities: the telekinesis, which Claude expertly mitigated with the blindfold; the hearing, which Claude undercut by dragging him into the abandoned subway station across the street (the echoing would make it more difficult to pinpoint sound); the molecular manipulation—melting things—he avoided by wrapping Sylar’s wrists with wet cloth before handcuffing him; the cloth, by the way, was doused with antifreeze, rendering both the cryokinesis and the pyrokinesis completely useless, the former for obvious reasons, and the latter…well, antifreeze is flammable, and Claude knows Sylar wouldn't want to accidentally burn himself. Lord knows the crush injuries to his fingers were painful enough.

“See mate, I’ve been around,” Claude said, yanking the nylon cords around Sylar’s neck. “I’ve been bagging specials since before you were born.”

And the super-memory? The precognition? Well, Claude doesn’t really care about those, it isn’t like Sylar could paint himself a pretty picture and escape.

Now Claude watches him closely, taking care to remain invisible even with all the precautions in place. He also tells himself not to say anything--with the trains passing back and forth, it's noisy enough to obscure his breathing and his heartbeat, but if he opens his mouth, he knows he risks getting telekinetically bitch-slapped. 

Even so, Claude can't ignore him for much longer. The little pisser just won't shut up. 

“So this is it?” Sylar says. Even with the blindfold—even when he's invisible—Sylar seems to stare straight at him, and that makes Claude itch uncomfortably. “This is how you’re getting back into their good graces. Hunting one of your own. Rather ironic, isn’t it?”

“See now, I’m going to do my nut if you keep talking, I’m trying to bloody concentrate,” Claude says.

“On what?” Sylar asks. “Keeping me in check? I thought that wouldn't be such a big task, seeing as you’ve been ‘bagging specials’ since before I was born. Or maybe I’m just more special than all of them?”

“You’re fucking crackers, is what,” Claude says. “And you’d better shut up too, or else I’ll smash your other hand in.”

Sylar slumps over again. That seemed to do it.

Claude drums his fingers on his knee impatiently. Where the hell was Bennet? He glances over his shoulder. Sylar doesn't look all that threatening now--in fact, he looks kind of like one of those annoying emo kids with the faux hawk and the head-to-toe black. Frankly, it looks ridiculous--even moreso with the blindfold tied unceremoniously around his eyes. And with the bungee cords tied around his neck and legs, Claude can see just how _thin_ Sylar really is, narrow shoulders and even narrower legs, almost skeletal. He's all long limbs and awkward angles, and for a moment, Claude feels almost sorry for him. 

It only lasts a moment, though.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, anyway?” Claude asks. “Your mum didn’t love you enough? Can’t get your jollies without slicing someone else’s head open?”

“Great men strive to better themselves, something you probably wouldn't know about,” Sylar says. He cocks his head slightly, the blindfold starting to slip. “I wonder what it must be like, hiding behind your invisibility. I wonder what it is you’re afraid of.”

“You wank like a virgin, anybody ever tell you that?” Claude asks, irritated. “Because you've been talking nonstop for almost an hour, and quite frankly it’s starting to give me a headache.”

Sylar doesn’t answer.

"Wait--don't tell me I've hit a sore spot!" Claude says. "You really _are_ a virgin, aren't you? Christ, no wonder you’re so fucked up--you never got your rocks off! And it’s no surprise, either. You’re no Lancelot, if you catch my drift.”

“I can hear you,” Sylar says, quietly. 

“Of course you can hear me, I’m bloody talking to you,” Claude says.

Sylar grins, the pale skin of his lower face jutting out from under the blindfold.... 

...and then Claude is airborne, slamming against the wall and whacking his shoulder with a thud. Chunks of concrete crumble around him.

“You were right, telekinetics can’t use their power unless they know where their target is,” Sylar says. “Of course, I don’t have to _see_ you to know where you are.”

And then Sylar’s hands begin to glow. Claude’s eyes widen as the cloth around his wrists catch flame and blacken in the heat. His gaze switches from Sylar’s wrists to Sylar’s mouth, which stretches out into a lazy grin. “I thought you would have known better than to talk to me,” Sylar says, and the cloth falls to the floor. “But you couldn’t resist, could you?” And then the cuffs around his wrists bubble, a metallic goop running down his arms. “Oops,” Sylar says, and he pulls off his blindfold. With a flick of his fingers, the nylon cords around his neck and ankles snap off, and now he’s standing, blinking and letting his eyes adjust to the dark. "Much better," he says, stretching his neck. "But you do realize I could have escaped any time I wanted to. I just had to be sure you didn't have another brick over my head."

Claude is still invisible. He doesn’t make a sound.

Behind him, a sulfur yellow light blinks in the corner, and Sylar walks toward it, examining his hand. It’s mangled and bloody, the bruised half-moons of his fingertips painfully swollen. “It’s a good thing I’m left-handed,” Sylar says. His eyes are flashing. “You’re going to pay for that.” 

Claude scrambles to his feet. The sounds of his footsteps echo down the corridor. 

“See, now this is going to be problematic,” Sylar says. He stalks around him, tilting his head slightly. “The sound bounces everywhere and you’re invisible. Makes for a pretty good cat and mouse, doesn’t it?” 

Sylar flicks his fingers again and the sprinklers turn on. 

Claude throws himself against the wall. He knows if he steps out into the fore, Sylar would see the water bouncing off of him. 

Now Sylar spins around, the sound of the water clearly disorienting him. His hair is flat and wet against his forehead and the dark trench coat clings to him heavily, and Claude is smart enough to realize Sylar could shield himself with his telekinesis if he wanted to, but he’s not. He’s not because he’s throwing all of his concentration into his hearing. 

Claude gropes for a metal pipe and waits for Sylar to walk by him.

“Where are you, _friend_?” Sylar asks. “You and I were getting along so well, I thought we could continue our little chat!”

Claude swings the metal pipe toward him, but Sylar whirls around and the pipe catches mid-air, bending backward with the force of his mind. The light catches the bouncing water and for one horrifying moment, both are completely still. The pipe snaps and Sylar flings it across the room. Water is everywhere and it's as if Sylar's moving in slow motion, throwing his arm up and aiming a jet of cryokinesis toward him.

Claude ducks but he doesn't move fast enough, suddenly caught in the jet of snow and hail. He cries out, the shock of cold air stinging his skin. He's being iced, frosted over, and even though he's invisible the frost forms over him, a shell of ice piercing through his invisibility.

Sylar steps forward, and the water droplets turn into ice in his path. Claude throws his hands up but the ice keeps coming, cutting into his skin like glass. 

"What you said earlier? That really hurt my feelings," Sylar says. He keeps advancing and Claude, blinded by snow, slips on the sheet of ice that Sylar had created just behind him. "But you know what they say. Sticks and stones, and whatnot. Or in this case, one huge concrete _brick._ But that's okay," Sylar says, and he pins Claude down with his mind. "You'll get what's coming to you."

Sylar grins, and the water falls everywhere but around his face, his telekinetic shield once again intact.

"I'm gonna have fun with this," Sylar says.

It's the last thing Claude hears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize in canon, Sylar can probably just yank off the blindfold with his telekinesis and be done with it, but for dramatic purposes I made it so he can't. Same with the TK shield--canon!Sylar can probably have a TK shield around him 24/7 if he wanted to, but in this AU he has to see what he's protecting himself from.


	3. Tunnel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylar and Mohinder look for Specials.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sylar is pretending to be "Zane."

"She can't even lift her head," Zane says, and Mohinder sags. Nine hours of driving only to come to another dead end: the cramped, stale bedroom of an invalid teenager curled up on a hospital bed, her arms flexed and her legs rigid and turned unnaturally inward. "Decorticate posturing," Mohinder murmurs, and he glances back at Zane, who looks just as tired and frustrated as Mohinder feels. "She's irreparably brain-damaged. If she has an ability, there's no way we would know it." 

Mohinder turns to the hospice nurse and offers her a weak smile.

"Thank you for your time," Mohinder says. It takes all of his effort not to scream.

*****

They're driving now, and it's getting late. The freeway is dark and the rain drums against the windshield, mixing with the sound of the radio and the windshield wipers droning in the background. Dale Smither is the next name on the list, but Dale's all the way in Montana. After the disaster with the quadriplegic, Mohinder secretly wishes he could just drop everything and drive back to New York, but he knows Zane would hear none of it. Really, Mohinder doesn't know what he would do without Zane to keep him company. He's the only thing keeping Mohinder's sanity intact.

A truck overtakes them and Mohinder blinks, startled. He can hear Zane moving, the soft rustle of his shirt as he changes positions in the car seat.

"You look out of it. Do you want me to drive?" Zane asks. 

"I'm fine," Mohinder says. "I'm just....distracted. I'll be alright."

"You're not alright, you look like you're going to pass out," Zane says. He reaches over and shuts the radio off, watching him with what Mohinder can only describe as a worried expression on his face. "Look, there's a rest stop coming ahead. Just pull in there and we can switch seats. We won't lose any time, I promise." 

Mohinder sighs. "You're probably right," he says. "Thanks."

They switch seats and drive for what seems like years, and even though Mohinder was the one who plotted the course, it's as if they have no real destination. In the closed equability of the car, Mohinder begins to lose track of time, falling asleep, then waking up, then falling asleep again. And all the while, Zane keeps driving, his face pinched and his mouth a twisted line. 

"You look positively sour," Mohinder says, finally. "Although, I really don't blame you. I was disappointed as well."

"Disappointed is an understatement," Zane says. He signals left and accelerates, passing the truck in front of them. "We're in Pennsylvania now, if you were wondering."

"Pennsylvania." Mohinder sucks in his breath. "And how far away is that from Montana?"

Shadows pass over Zane's face, and it's as if he's looking at something far away. "A while," Zane says, finally. He glances back at Mohinder and explains, "We're about halfway through the state, and on the map it's about 1800 miles. We're doing about 75, 80 right now, so probably another 22 hours. Assuming I-80 doesn't get too jammed up."

"Well I'm glad you're with me," Mohinder says. "I don't have the head to figure these things out. Not to mention the stamina it takes to drive that long."

"Don't sell yourself short: you drove for a pretty large chunk of it," Zane says. "And it's just division. I'm sure you've done higher math during your training."

"Yes, and I was terrible at it," Mohinder says. "My father used to joke that I should have become a philosopher, or a poet. And I don't know, I suppose he was right. But genetics is my life right now and I can't turn my back on it. Even if we're on a cross-country goose chase, I just can't." 

Mohinder rests his head against the glass. He watches the cars streaking past them, the bright yellow light of their headbeams cutting through the dark. 

"Sometimes I feel like this is a fool's errand," Mohinder says. "Half the people on this list are either dead or missing, and it's incredibly frustrating. Especially after today. Did you know, I spoke with that girl's mother earlier, and before the accident, she supposedly could run at superhuman speeds? I mean, if that's not ironic, I don't know what is--even if she got her higher functions back, her limbs are so atrophied she couldn't even sit up."

"It's just a setback," Zane says. "I have a feeling the next person will be more promising."

"I suppose," Mohinder says.

"Don't give up," Zane says. "What you're doing is extremely difficult. And you've already accomplished so much. You shouldn't be so down on yourself."

"I don't even know why I'm doing this," Mohinder says. "It's not even my research--it's my father's. I could be running my own laboratory right now, but I'm not. I'm living out of my suitcase, hunting for people who won't even talk to me. I just feel like I'm in my father's shadow. I can't escape it. And ever since his death...." Mohinder gestures helplessly. "I don't know," he says, finally. "I think I'm just tired." He looks out the window again, the lighted signs and tall black trees passing into the night. 

"My father never thought much of me, either," Zane says suddenly. 

Mohinder shifts and turns to face him.

"I'm a disappointment," Zane says. "Nothing I did was ever good enough. Even when I took over the family business. People just don't understand how hard it is, living under your family's shadow."

"Was your father a musician?" Mohinder asks. 

Zane hesitates, a catch in his throat. "No," he says. "No, I'm doing what I want, now."

"That's fantastic," Mohinder says. "You're doing what you want--you're an accomplished musician. You're following your dreams. You should be happy, most people don't have that luxury." 

"Sometimes I think I am," Zane says. "Happy, I mean. But mostly I just feel....unsatisfied. Like I can do more, become something greater than myself." His voice drops to a low whisper, and with the rain and the windshield wipers, Mohinder has to strain to hear him.

"Sometimes I don't like myself," Zane says, nakedly. "Sometimes I wish I could change that." 

Mohinder glances back at him, and he's shocked to see the wetness around Zane's eyes. But it disappears as quickly as it comes, and Zane flashes Mohinder an embarrassed smile. 

"Wow, I must be really tired," Zane says, a little too loudly. "Maybe we should get a room somewhere, I don't think I can drive anymore."

"Zane, it's okay," Mohinder says. "I think we all feel inadequate from time to time. I don't think it's anything to be ashamed about."

"I'm fine," Zane says. "I just hope this Dale Smither guy isn't another quadriplegic."

They go under a tunnel. Black replaces the blue night and the only light Mohinder is conscious of comes from side lights of the tunnel walls, the only sound a furious thudding of tires on pavement. His eyes are fixed on the road and on the expanse of sky at the tunnel's end, the light yawning like an open mouth: he thinks of the girl curled on her side, and how her arms were curved like the wings of a broken bird.

"22 more hours," Mohinder says, but Zane doesn't answer.


	4. Cougar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylar gets attacked by a cougar, and it pisses him off. Gen. Crack. Takes place a few days after "Kindred."

There's a sound, a rustling of leaves, and even though his super-hearing is gone, Sylar can still hear the whisper of a threat in the footfall behind him. If The Company had dispatched their men to come after him, he knows they would not expect much of a fight: he's powerless, and his wound is weeping through his bandages. There would only be a few of them, he thinks, two or three at the most.

"So you're finally here to catch me. I wondered what took you so long," Sylar says, and he grips the switchblade in his pocket. "We both know those stun guns of yours aren't that accurate, and in this brush, I'm expecting you to miss. When that happens, you won't be able to reload in time--not before I get to you, first." 

Sylar flicks open the switchblade, holding it out so that the metal gleams in the sun. 

"Let's hope for your sake I'm wrong," Sylar says. 

With deliberate slowness, Sylar turns, switchblade in hand, expecting to see a small contingency of Company agents packing tranquilizer darts and handcuffs. Instead, he comes face-to-face with the copper eyes of a cougar stalking behind him.

A COUGAR. It takes his mind a moment to process it. But yeah--it's a cougar. A real, live, jungle-dwelling _cougar_.

"Oh, shit," Sylar says. The cougar crouches, a low rumble in its throat.

The cougar bursts, an explosion of teeth and muscle in back of him. Sylar runs and lurches to the right, a hard turn that sends the cougar crashing into the bush. Behind him, the cougar slides to a stop and changes direction, and Sylar scrambles, running faster, faster, his stitches popping. He's pure adrenaline now, heartbeat roaring and breathing hard. The terrain dips and he's rocketing downhill, feet pounding and dirt mushrooming around him.

His foot catches a root and he slams into the ground. The cougar roars and explodes on top of him, throwing him back onto the ground. The switchblade goes flying, and Sylar throws his arm in front of his face just as the cougar clamps down, teeth sinking into his forearm instead of his neck. The cougar's jaws begin to lock and Sylar screams, his other arm whacking the ground. Fingers grip the switchblade and Sylar stabs! Stabs! Wildly, again and again, until the animal drops, its jaws releasing its hold on Sylar's arm.

The cat roars, then gurgles, and finally there's nothing but blood dripping on Sylar's face. Sylar drops his blade and collapses, the dead cougar still on top of him. He takes a moment to catch his breath, waiting for his heartbeat to slow. It's hot and he has trouble breathing, the air so thick it's suffocating....

It probably doesn't help that there's a dead cougar on his chest, Sylar thinks, and he moves to push it off. 

It doesn't budge. 

"Oh you've _got_ to be kidding me," Sylar says, and he strains to push the dead cougar off and sit upright, but his incision site wrenches open and his abdomen screams in protest. Sylar gasps and falls back down again, the dead cougar straddling him like a woman. 

He's taken it for granted how easy things were with his telekinesis. It just isn't fair.

Sylar takes a breath to steady himself. This is gonna hurt, he thinks. He takes another breath and _heaves_. Pain knifes through him but he manages to shove the cougar off, its body limply rolling onto the ground. He's bleeding again, his incision weeping underneath the bandage. But that's nothing compared to the gouges on his arm, blood spurting out from whatever arteries had been shredded. 

Sylar looks at the cougar and glares. "You'd better not have rabies," Sylar says. A fly lands on the cougar's nose.

Sylar grunts and leans heavily against the cougar's dead body. With his good arm he yanks off his belt, looping it around his bicep into a makeshift tourniquet. He pulls the leather tight with his teeth, his good hand fumbling with the clasp. 

"If I had my abilities, I wouldn't even need this. I'd just cauterize those vessels with my hand," Sylar says. He tugs on the belt. "I wouldn't even _be_ in this mess. I could dodge bullets before, I definitely could have weathered a goddamn cougar attack." 

Sylar stands and cradles his arm. He looks at the cougar, its mouth gaping open. Flies are already nesting in its stab wounds. 

"Fucking cougar," Sylar says, and he kicks it hard. The cougar rolls, the force of Sylar's kick dispersing like jello. 

"Fucking _cougar_!" Sylar shouts, and he kicks it again. "It's so fucking _hot_ here, and I could have fixed it! And these birds! They keep fucking _chirping_ and I could fucking _block them out_ before! I hate these bugs! I hate this place! Fucking cougar! Goddamn fucking ASSHOLE cougar!"

He kicks again but his foot accidentally catches in its mouth, colliding into one of its teeth. 

"FUCK!" Sylar says, and he yanks his foot out. Now his foot is bleeding, too.

Sylar grits his teeth and clutches his foot. He's still breathing hard, and with each breath comes the sharp pain from his incision site, the pain white-hot and knifing through him. His arm throbs and his foot throbs, and Sylar thinks about the half dozen or so miles he still has to walk to get into town.

"Fucking mother nature," Sylar says. "I'm too evolved for this shit."

A mosquito buzzes and lands on Sylar's neck. He slaps it hard, but he misses, slapping himself instead. 

He's gonna _kill_ the fucker who put him here. 

But first he needs to get to town.


	5. After Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire tries to escape from Sylar. Violence.

After-hours in a grimy bar; this is where Sylar has taken her. Invisible hands lock her to the bar stool, and there's nothing Claire can do but watch him drink.

"You gonna get me one, or what?" Claire asks. Sylar looks at her evenly before pushing her the glass. Claire tosses it back, and starts to cough. Sylar grins, widely.

"That's my girl," Sylar says.

"I'm not your _girl_ ," Claire says, and he shoves her into the table. Claire looks up at him with hard eyes.

"You keep doing that," Sylar says. "Go ahead. Hurt my feelings. I just might take that ability of yours and make myself feel better."

Claire feels him rake his fingers into her hair, feels his eyes burning at the back of her neck. She glances at the two men in the corner playing pool, and at the basket of fries sitting on the pool table.

"Could I get something to eat?" Claire asks. Sylar cocks his head. Claire's heart pounds in her throat, but Sylar doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe he does, maybe he's used to her being afraid. In any case, he considers her request and nods his head.

"I suppose," Sylar says. "I don't see any harm in that."

There's nothing but bar food here, cheesy greasy things that makes Claire's stomach churn. Sylar pushes her a plate of ranch-cheese fries; on the plate is a fork and knife.

Claire grabs the knife and slashes her arm.

Someone screams, and the men playing pool jump up. Sylar whirls around but Claire stabs herself again. The blood bleeds black around her shirt.

Claire jumps off the bar stool but Sylar's TK grabs her by the ankles. Claire slams forward, her head whacking the floor. Patrons jump up but Sylar throws them across the room.

"See, Claire," Sylar says. "See what you made me do?"

Sylar grabs Claire by the hair and yanks her out of the bar. Claire screams. An ambulance comes wailing into the parking lot. Policemen come running, and Sylar stops and pulls Claire close to him. She can feel him start to glow.

"Wait!" Claire says. "Stop! Stop!"

Sylar explodes. Claire screams, white hot flame scorching her body. Around her, the building catches fire and the police trucks are thrown back in the blast.

The whiteness fades, and Sylar is still clutching her tight. Claire opens her eyes and sees the building lit on fire, and the hard black bodies scattered on the ground. Under his fingers, she can see her skin knitting itself whole again, the dead gray skin flaking off like clay.

"That," Sylar says. "Was entirely unnecessary." He breathes hard against her neck, his fingers dragging across her throat.

"You've been a bad girl, Claire," Sylar says, and he jerks Claire's head back, hard. "Maybe I should teach you a lesson."

"Oh God," Claire says, and she begins to sob.


	6. Pulse-ox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire watches Sylar in the OWI!room. Spoilers for "Seven Minutes to Midnight."

"What are you doing here?"

Bennet walks in to see his daughter frowning at the window. Precious seconds pass, and Bennet manages to piece together the events of the last two hours: how Eden found Claire sobbing in the corner of the factory office, how the two of them together convinced the Haitian to let her in the room. Now she's standing in front of the wide glass window, watching the wires snaking out of Sylar's arms. He's on telemetry now, the whole of him reduced to measurements on pulse-ox and EKG. Bennet listens to the blip of his heartbeat, and how it seems to blend in perfectly with the low drone of the flourescent lights above him. He looks back at his daughter with worried eyes.

"I had to see," Claire says. "I had to see what he looks like."

"You shouldn't be here," Bennet says.

"He tried to _kill_ me, what do you expect?" Claire says.

Bennet takes her by the arm. "You're going outside, it's not safe for you here," Bennet says.

"No!" Claire says. "You turned me into some sort of freak show, I don't have to listen to you. This is my life! I have a right to know!"

"Claire!"

The blipping speeds up, and Sylar opens his eyes.

Bennet takes her by the arm. "You're leaving, end of discussion," Bennet says, and he shoves her into the hallway.

The door closes, and Bennet turns back to Sylar, who's now sitting up on the cot. But Sylar's not looking at him, he's watching a cockroach on the floor. Bennet sags visibly. He moves his hand to the panel to switch off the lights.

"She sounds like a handful," Sylar says, and he turns his head slowly, his eyes meeting his gaze. "Just say the word, and she won't be a problem anymore."

Bennet glances at the monitor. His vitals are strong; he's beginning to heal nicely. In a day or so, they'll transfer him to the subacute ward, where there's padded walls and portable IVs, and the long tray of needles pushed up against the hall. He remembers how the tech noted that Sylar had really good veins--all the better to practice with, Bennet thinks--and he looks back at Sylar and smiles.

"Take care, now," Bennet says, and he turns off the lights in the room.


	7. Sylar is Not an Empath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Powerless!Sylar becomes an empath, but it's not what you think. Gen, crack. Takes place around Season 2.

Sylar slams Peter against the door. Peter's eyes widen. 

"No no no, you don't have to do this, you don't have to kill me, you're just like me, no, NO--"

Blood splatters on Sylar's shirt, and Sylar frowns, silently. Too hasty, much too hasty, Sylar thinks, and he shrugs off the shirt with disdain. He could have easily avoided the mess with a splash of telekinesis, but in his powerless state, he had to to get used to doing things the hard way. 

Now Peter lies sprawled in front of him, the hole in his head gaping like an open mouth. Sylar smiles, then turns to wipe the blood off his knife. _A pity things didn't work out with Candice,_ Sylar thinks to himself. There's a sound, and Sylar's head practically whips backward: the damn Petrelli is lying on the ground as if nothing had happened, rubbing his temple and struggling to sit up.

"Shit," Sylar says. Peter groans, the gash on his forehead knitting back together. If Peter were smarter, he would have realized that he could have teleported out of the warehouse ages ago. But Peter's not smart, he's too panicked to think clearly. Sylar takes advantage of this: he knocks Peter upside the head, dragging him unconscious across the floor.

****

An empath with intuitive aptitude is a dangerous thing, especially if said empath is also immortal, so Sylar has to take extra precautions to make sure Peter doesn't escape: he blindfolds Peter's eyes to keep him from using telekinesis; for the electricity, he puts Peter's feet in water. It's entertaining to watch Peter shock himself attempting to escape--his skin heals _so_ quickly, Sylar can't help but feel a little bit jealous--but then Peter starts to float out of the chair (damn flying!) and Sylar has to weigh him down with bricks on Peter's lap. "And don't you even _think_ about using fire," Sylar says, and he douses Peter with gasoline. "Because we both know that even though you can heal, the people who live around this building can't." 

Then Peter turns invisible. Sylar smacks Peter's invisible face with the side of a crowbar. "Enough," Sylar says. Peter sags in the chair.

Sylar paces around the warehouse. He tried this with Candice, but it didn't work. She died and that delicious ability of hers was lost. Sylar grinds his teeth. If he kills Peter, he could lose everything. Sylar grunts, frustrated. Meanwhile Peter struggles in his bonds, seemingly forgetting that he has super strength and could tear right through them like paper if he wanted. He's panicking and he's breathing hard. 

"You can't do this," Peter says. He cranes his neck, straining against the rope. "Please, it's not gonna work--"

Peter's voice dips. His breathing slows. "You don't want to kill me," Peter says. Sylar cocks his head.

"Oh really?" Sylar says. "Because believe it or not, I've been looking forward to killing you for a very long time."

"Except that right now, killing me isn't a guarantee you'll get my ability," Peter says, and the cadence of his voice changes, matches the exact pitch and tone of Sylar's own. "That's right, I know what happened. You don't have your powers, but I have yours. Don't look so shocked. I've had it for a _long time_ ," Peter says.

"You're trying to manipulate me," Sylar says, and his mouth quirks to the side. "That's so...entertaining...Peter. You don't even know."

"You're stalling," Peter says. "Think about it. An empath with intuitive aptitude. I never understood any of my powers, but I do now. And I can teach you all of them. Including my own."

Sylar can almost hear the _tic tic tic_ of Peter's brain, whirring and processing, and yet to Sylar's amusement it still hasn't occurred to Peter that he could escape anytime he wanted. Sylar smirks.

"What makes you think I won't kill you when I'm done?" Sylar asks. Peter only smiles.

"What makes you think I won't kill _you_?" 

*****

It takes Sylar the better part of the afternoon before Peter finally finishes explaining exactly how empathic mimicry works. Even without that exquisite understanding, Sylar is still able to force himself to adapt. His mind, clumsy and sluggish without his ability, seems to be clouded over in a gray fog. So _this_ is what it's like to be an empath, Sylar thinks, grimly. It's no wonder Peter keeps screwing up.

Sylar opens the window. Sunlight pours into the room, and Sylar closes his eyes, breathing deeply. Everything around him seems cleaner, crisper, like the world is suddenly spilling inside of him....

Wait, what? Sylar blinks. The vaguely sexual undertone aside, Sylar is jarred by the fact that somehow he's become the _woman_ in this scenario.

"You're starting to feel it, aren't you?" Peter asks. 

"What?" Sylar turns. The feeling is so strange. Everything is _open_ now, warmth and light radiating from everything around him. Fortunately, Sylar's always been good at multi-tasking: even though he's feeling somewhat unbalanced, he's still got the presence of mind to keep Peter firmly in check. "Of course I feel it. It's not so complex, after all. I would have figured it out even without you telling me."

"Sure you would have," Peter says. Sylar tries to ignore him. He glances back at Peter, notices the raw skin around his wrists. The handcuffs look like they hurt. Sylar winces. He just look so sad....

Sylar jerks back, horrified. "What the hell did you do to me?" Sylar asks.

"I gave you my ability, just like you gave me yours," Peter says.

"But this isn't me, I can't think anymore--oh my god, this isn't me!"

"Too much to handle?" Peter asks. 

"Shut up!" Sylar says. He fights the irresistible urge to cry in Peter's lap. "Just shut up! Shut up!" 

Sylar lurches outside, clutching his head in his hands. He's overwhelmed. Suddenly everything in his past comes rushing back: his mother, her murder, the look in her eyes....

"Fuck!" Sylar says. Reflexively, his mind clamps down on the memories, but it's too late: the pain of it swells up in his chest. "No, no, no...."

In the warehouse, Peter listens for signs of Sylar. Quietly, he uses his telekinesis to undo the blindfolds and the chains. He teleports away, the pool of water rippling under his disappearing feet.

*****

Bennet sees Sylar crouched in an alleyway, eyes wide and confused and wandering the street in a dazed fog. "Don't move!" Bennet says, and Sylar doesn't. His face is vacant, placid, and he surrenders himself without a fight. Bennet is confused. He radios back to headquarters, pressing a gun against Sylar's back. 

"I forgive you," Sylar says. Bennet stares at him.

"What?" 

"I said, I forgive you," Sylar says. "I know you're just following orders. I know the conflict you must feel, trying to protect your family, being alienated from everyone else. You and I are alike, Noah. We can help each other. I know it."

"Oh for chrissakes." Bennet shoves Sylar forward. "One more word and I'll shoot you right here, you hear me?"

"You're in pain, Noah. I can see it in your eyes," Sylar says.

Bennet tasers Sylar in the back. Sylar falls, unconscious.

"Whoops," Bennet says. He reholsters the gun. "I forgive you, too."


	8. A Death in Michigan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The winters are always bleak in Lansing, Michigan. Sylar confronts President Nathan. AU, 5YG-universe. Gen.

When night fell and the stars were all but extinquished, he hiked through cities then snow-covered hills and used his power to keep himself warm.

He found him looking less-than presidential, huddled up on the snowy street and struggling with the GPS. His face was more lined than he remembered.

Bullets rang out. Sylar smoothly turned and stopped them mid-air. They fell like pebbles on the ground. Agents rushed out but Sylar bested them first. Bones crunched from the impact; only some were still alive.

"You," Nathan said. A hand groped for a cell phone but Sylar flicked it away. "You--"

"The one and only," Sylar said.

Nathan backed up in to the seat. An outside observer might mistake that for a gesture of fear, but Sylar knew better. He could fly away, and if that were to happen, Sylar was ready to TK him to the ground or at the very least, telekinetically latch onto his leg or ankle. But Nathan didn't fly. Even now he wouldn't expose himself to the world.

Sylar sniffed. "Is that really so important? Being something that you're not?"

"I won't run," Nathan said.

"Of course you won't," Sylar said. He stepped closer, the snow crunching underfoot.

He slammed Nathan against the car seat. Tilting his head, he looked into Nathan's face. "Yes," Sylar said. He knelt down closer. "Yes, be afraid. I know what I have to do."

He leaned closer to him, close enough to touch. "I'm going to kill you now," Sylar said. "And then I'm going to take your place."

Nathan wrenched his shoulders and tried to speak. He couldn't; Sylar's grip around his neck prevented that. "Goodbye, Mr. President," Sylar said.

His blood looked bright on the freshly laid snow.


	9. A Rope and a Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She stopped him from killing himself. Pre-series. AU. Eden, Sylar.

**April 2006**

In the early evening hours of the twenty-sixth of April, a man named Gabriel went into his shop with the intention of killing himself. Later reports would detail the things that most would not find terribly important: the way he was dressed; the prescription he wore; the eye loupes haphazardly put in place. The isolation of this man was all in the subtext. It did not have to be spelled out. 

From far away, the watch shop looked dark and uninviting, like the mouth of a cave or black hole pitched between other buildings and concrete walls. The awnings drooped with rain, sagging and useless and partially obscuring the Victorian flourish of the sign _Gray & Sons_ scrawled across the window. Inside, a fine layer of dust covered the benches and the clocks, which had long ago stopped ticking. None of it mattered. Another detail whose significance was not lost. 

Eden knew. If he killed himself at home, no one would know that he died. That's what bothered her the most: the premeditation, the decision to do this thing in his shop, knowing that the door is unlocked and someone would step in and find his body-- _that_ was what bothered her. That even though he lost the will to live, he still had the presence of mind to do the act in a way that would keep him from rotting alone for too long. 

He was already dead when she found him, but a vial of blood took care of that. She cut the rope and his body dropped like a sack of concrete. The noose itself was tight, and it had taken all her effort before she was able to slide two fingers between the noose and his neck. Already she could feel that elusive shimmer, the feel of his body putting itself back together, when she managed to loosen the rope and pull it out from around his neck. His head dropped into her lap. He coughed, then curled up against her like a child.

There was not enough blood to bring him to consciousness quickly, only the scant amount all field agents are required to carry, which was just enough to heal superficial scrapes or the occasional bullet wound, so she perched on her hands and watched him sleep, still unconscious and eyelids fluttering. She was afraid to leave the man alone, afraid that once he woke up, he'd try to kill himself again. The sky outside was overcast, and through the slanted glass she could see drops of rain falling outside the store window. The name on his driver's license said _Gabriel_ , and that to her seemed tragic. 

His breathing was shallow and his hands clenched and unclenched into fists. Lowering her head above his chest, she murmured softly with her voice and eased the restlessness away.

The phone rang. She didn't answer.

***** 

He woke up later that night, eyes wide and hands flying toward his neck.

"It's okay," Eden said. She grasped his wrists and brought his hands down to his lap. "Shh, listen to me, it's okay, it's okay."

"Where am I?" he asked. "I--I thought..."

"I found you," Eden said. Her throat tightened reflexively, ready to throw out a command should she need it. "You were unconscious. I didn't want to leave you alone."

She watched as he struggled to sit up. The blood she gave him wasn't enough to heal the bruises around his neck, and she wondered if she should have gone ahead and taken him to a hospital. "What happened?" Eden asked. 

He shook his head. "I can't...."

Eden touched his hand. " _Tell me_ ," she said.

He looked up at her with wide, wet eyes. "I hurt someone," he said. 

"Who?" Eden asked. "Who did you hurt?"

"It doesn't matter." There was sadness in his voice, and in his eyes, and it made Eden's heart ache. 

"Then _sleep_ ," Eden said. " _Sleep. You want to sleep. And when you wake up, you'll want to live_."

Her words hung in the air like fog. Wordlessly, Eden folded him into her arms, resting her cheek against his hair. She held him until he fell asleep again, the long comma of his body leaning against her side. It had been a long time since Bennet plucked her out from the streets of LA, a long time since she felt the touch of a man or strained against it. Loneliness and desperation had compelled her to use her voice, to trick men into wanting her. She understood. She knew too well what that was like: to be invisible, to exist outside the world and wander the streets only half-alive. She knew what it was like to feel too much and drink too much and to have it all blotted out like a frenzied dream. 

Pressing the palm of her hand flat against his back, she felt the rhythmic rise and swell of his breathing, and she murmured, quietly,

" _You will not feel guilty anymore. You will realize that whatever you've done, you did it for a good reason. You will wake up and you will feel fine_."

And she leaned him carefully against the workbench, winding the rope around her arm and stuffing it into her bag. Later that night, she couldn't sleep. She pulled out the rope and turned it over in her hands, thinking of the man in the shop and how he slept alone.

*****

**October 2006**

They still didn't know who he was. The days with Chandra Suresh never yielded the infamous Patient Zero, the man on whom the majority of the scientist's work was based. It wasn't until they caught him that Eden realized who he was. Documents detailing Eden's revelation did not depict the horror she felt or the guilt, or how this could have provided the impetus for the tragedy to take place the next day. All that was written, and all that was signed off on, was that she had once seen him through suicide and had never seen him again.

On the eleventh of October, 2006, a woman named Sarah Ellis shot herself in the head. Her body was found floating in a Canadian lake, eyes still open and staring sightlessly up into the sky. Newspapers would print up an account of sex and drugs and the lonely woman in the middle of it all. Mothers would read it and shake their heads, then clutch the hands of their daughters walking beside them. Then they would let the pages fall, the paper fluttering onto the street. A page will land on a puddle on the sidewalk, and men will walk across it unknowingly, footsteps falling on the picture of Sarah Ellis's face.


	10. Flash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfinished ficlet about Hiro vs. Sylar

There was a flash, and then a boom, and then all the clocks on the walls had stopped: pendulums stuck in mid-swing; second hands silent and still. Gabriel whirled around and saw a man in black advancing toward him, his face like a kabuki mask. It was as if everything was moving in slow motion; the man's hand reaching behind his back, the sword slowly unsheathed and swung forward.

Move, Gabriel thought. _Move_!

Gabriel threw himself against the wall just as the sword crashed into his workbench. The clocks sprang back to life. Gabriel scrambled to his feet, but the other man was too quick, yanking him back by the arm and slamming him against the table.

"Sylar!" the man barked. "What do you know about Sylar?"

"It's a German manufacturer!" Gabriel said, breathing hard. "They made quartz movement timepieces better than Rolex but they went out of business because they weren't flashy enough. Please, there's money in the register, you can take whatever you want!"

The man visibly relaxed. "So you haven't transformed yet," the man said. He let go of Gabriel's arm and re-sheathed his sword. "My name is Hiro Nakamura. I come from the future. In less than a year, a bomb will destroy all of New York and everyone in it, and it's because of you. I came here to stop that from happening."

"Wait," Gabriel said. "You're saying I designed some sort of bomb?"

"Not designed," Hiro said. " _Became_." He walked up and down the store, watching the clocks. "I must have gone back too far," he said. "You haven't met Chandra Suresh, yet."

"The geneticist," Gabriel said. "I did--he came by a few days ago. I'm supposed to see him this afternoon."

"Then it's not too late," Hiro said. He wandered over to a bookshelf and absently picked up one of his crystals, turning it over in his hands. "Things go very wrong after that first meeting," Hiro said. He looked at him with dark eyes. "You have an ability: intuitive aptitude. It's subtle, and at first glance it's not that much different from being highly skilled or very intelligent. But it allows you to do terrible things. Awful things, things you can't even _imagine_."

Hiro set the crystal down and turned toward him. "When you see Dr. Suresh, you'll undergo a battery of tests, all of which turn up negative. You get in an argument, and you end up getting the name of another person on Suresh's list. A telekinetic named Brian Davis. You kill him and take his power, and that sets off a whole chain of events that lead to the eventual destruction of New York."

"Wait--I _kill_ someone?" Gabriel asked. "No, that can't be right. I'm just a watchmaker. I wouldn't hurt anybody."

Hiro turned around and regarded the watch shop again, his neck craning upwards. Gabriel could almost see what the man was thinking, each thought and each idea colliding and contradicting each other. He wondered briefly if he had fallen asleep again at his workbench.

"I'll have to take you," Hiro said, finally. "It's the only way you'll believe me."

"And if I refuse?" Gabriel asked.

Hiro looked at him evenly. "Then I have to kill you," he said.

"Jesus," Gabriel said.

Hiro gave a funny little half-shrug and extended his arm. Gabriel took it, and then they were outside. They were on the rooftop somewhere in the middle of the night, the cold wind piercing his lungs.

"Look over there," Hiro said, and he pointed toward the lone figure standing at the roof's edge. "Do you see?" Hiro said. "This is what you become after your meeting with Chandra Suresh."

Gabriel circled the other man slowly. He could see the man's black silhouette against the nighttime sky, his arms outstretched. Every so often the man's hands lit up and the roof was illuminated with light, and Gabriel intuitively realized that this is what Hiro meant when he said he became a bomb.

"This is me?" he asked. He stared up at the other man's face, awestruck. "I'm...powerful," Gabriel said. "I'm everything I've always wanted to be."

Hiro frowned. "You killed almost a dozen people to reach that point," Hiro said. "A few of them didn't even have abilities--they just got in your way."

"There has to be a way," Gabriel said. "There has to be something where I can take other abilities without hurting anyone."

"Why would you want to do that?" Hiro said. "In my time, Sylar is hated more than Hitler. Why would anybody want to be like that?"

"Because you remember him," Gabriel said, softly. "People meet me, and forget me five minutes later. I would give anything to be remembered. Even if it means being hated. At least then I'd be somebody."

Gabriel turned back and watched the other man's hands unfurling in the dark, the light radiating from his palms and into a bright sunburst of white heat. He glanced back at Hiro, whose mouth was a tight line.

"What if we killed him?" Gabriel asked softly. "You came back to kill me, why not him? Then I can look at him. See how he works. That way I wouldn't have to kill anybody...." He turned to Hiro in earnest. "It'd be completely your mission, wouldn't it? And what's the harm if I benefit, too?"

He noticed Hiro's hand going for the hilt of his sword.

"He's too powerful, is that it?" Gabriel asked. "That's why you went after me. I'm nothing, while he's _everything_. Killing me would be no great task, but him? You're afraid. But why should I be the one punished for your shortcomings? I'm not the one who did anything--he's the one who's going to blow up New York!"

"This was a mistake," Hiro said. "I should never have brought you here."

"You don't know what it's like!" Gabriel said. "I'm all alone in that fucking shop, day in and day out. If you killed me now, no one would notice--no one would even care. If I died no one would give a shit--not even my mother. In fact, it might be the best thing to happen to her. Having a martyred son would be something to brag about in church."


	11. Sylar in Japan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> drabble

It takes Sylar only two days, 16 hours, and 32 minutes before he can speak Japanese fluently. Standing outside a Tokyo office building, Sylar marvels at himself: it's as if the world of words has opened up to him, a flower blossoming in his hand.

The little one will be here any minute. Sylar waits.

"Hiro, you can't go to the arcade--we need to finish compiling the code!"

"We don't need to watch it, it'll run by itself."

The fat one happily barrels down the steps, his thin black tie whipping behind his shoulder like a leash. Worry lines cross the other man's face. Sylar's face spreads into a slow grin. Pay dirt.

The thin one disappears into a telephone booth while the fat one fidgets at the corner. He pulls out a small handheld device--a blackberry, Sylar thinks to himself. Or maybe some sort of game console?--and starts playing. Lights from the screen bounce off the fat one's face; his small round glasses reflect the light back like mirrors.

Sylar steps out of the shadows.

The fat one looks up, shoves the console in his pocket. In English, he says, "Excuse-a me? Are you lost?"

"I was," Sylar says in perfect Japanese. "But I think I've found what I'm looking for."

Sylar steps closer, his hand twitching in his pocket. The fat one blanches, then backs up slowly. "My father is looking for me," he says, and he breaks out into a sprint.

"Sayonara," Sylar says. The thin one opens the phone booth and looks thoroughly confused.


	12. Needles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fallout, from a company man's point-of-view.

"You're going to stick yourself if you keep doing that," Bennet says.

Hank caps and uncaps the needle in his hand, rolling the empty syringe in his palm. Bennet shoots him a pointed look and Hank sets the needle down. An act of contrition. He waits for Bennet's approval, but the other man briskly walks past him, bumping shoulders as he crosses the room.

"Do we really need straps?" Hank asks. He quickly follows after Bennet. "I already administered the paralytic, he won't be able to move."

"They're dangerous, Hank, you know that," Bennet says. "He may look like a teenager, but he's unpredictable. It took four field agents to capture him."

"It still doesn't make it right," Hank says. "You know I'm all for experimentation, but Jesus, Noah, he's just a kid. He's probably your daughter's age--"

"Enough," Bennet says, and Hank's mouth thins. The boy watches them both with frightened eyes.

Hank quietly draws up the glycimerine, marveling at the whole stupidity of this exercise: they already knew the kid's ability, there was no reason whatsoever to subject him to this. But Company policy dictates that all abilities be verified with the glycimerine before further testing commences, and as a routine, neither he nor Bennet reviewed the boy's file: it tamps down the possibility of biased reporting. Hank clicks on his dictaphone.

"Subject is a 14 year-old male, West Rosen, with no medical history," Hank dictates. "Analgesics and long-acting paralytics were given prior to exam. Subject is conscious, as per Company protocol."

Bennet crosses his arms impatiently, so Hank clicks off the dictaphone and picks up the syringe. He cleans the boy's arm with an alcohol swab and draws back the skin. "Just a pinch," Hank says, and he slowly injects the drug. Across from him, Bennet begins to undo the straps to the table. After the boy is completely unstrapped, the two men step back and wait for the glycimerine to take effect.

The boy's arm begins to twitch. Then his leg. Suddenly he rockets up to the ceiling, slamming against the flourescent lights.

"He's a flier," Bennet says. The boy flails helplessly above them.

"Bring him down, Hank," Bennet says, and he pulls a cell phone out of his pocket and steps out of the room.

*****

Hank is the only physician among a team of PhDs, lab bench jockeys whose only reprieve from the ivory tower involves occasionally trekking down to the dungeons to give Hank his orders. "We need you to withhold number 34's tube feedings," they say.

"Why?" Hank asks, but he already knows the answer.

"This one's a healer: we want to see if his abilities are affected by his nutrition status," they say. And they disappear to the upper floors, leaving Hank staring blankly at the glass.

*****

Hank's beeper goes off at 2 AM. He reaches over and dials the phone. "What's up?" he asks. The agent on the other line grunts.

"We have a subject for STAT testing," the agent says. "They told me to tell you to read his file, though."

"That's not company protocol, you know that," Hank says. He rubs the sleep from his eyes. "What's the matter?"

"Fuck if I know, just get over here," the agent says. "They're practically rioting. You'd better hurry up and test him before Thompson gets here."

"Thanks," Hank says. He hangs up the phone.

*****

When Eden brings the subject in, she lingers at the door, watching Hank administer the paralytic. Normally Hank doesn't mind people watching him work--Lord knows Bennet did it all the time--but it's 3 AM and Eden's twitchy, her high heels clacking as she paces by the doorway; Hank is tired and in no mood to suffer fools.

"Everything's under control. You can go now," Hank says, tersely.

"But Sylar's dangerous, I don't think--"

"They're all dangerous, I already gave him the paralytic, you can go now," Hank says.

Eden stands a moment longer. There's something in her eyes--worry, maybe--and she opens her mouth to speak, but thinks the better of it and leaves. Hank sighs, relieved.

"I just don't know about these kids," Hank says. Sylar watches him with dispassionate eyes.

Slowly, Hank circles the table, fiddling with the syringe. The patient doesn't look all that menacing--a little underweight, a little pale. The patient's lips are cracked slightly, possibly from dehydration.

"You look a little dry," Hank says. The patient (obviously) doesn't answer.

Hank steps to the other side of the room and clicks on his dictaphone.

"Subject is a 30 year-old male, Gabriel Gray, who has no pertinent medical history that we know of, although--"

The scrub cart slams into Hank's back. The dictaphone flies across the room. Hank looks up and sees Sylar watching him, his eyes trained on Hank's face. Bennet comes running in. He yanks a bag over Sylar's face.

"What the hell were you doing?" Bennet asks.

"I'm sorry, I strapped him down, I thought we took all the necessary precautions--"

"He's telekinetic, you knew that!" Bennet says. "You always blindfold telekinetics. That should have been obvious!"

"He's scared, Noah. He's reacting as any other person would."

"Do you know who he is?" Bennet asks. He stands close to Hanks face. "Have you even read his file?"

"You didn't give me a chance," Hank says. "It's the middle of the night and I just woke up an hour ago. No one debriefed me. They just told me we had another subject to test."

Bennet walks to the desk at the corner of the room and grabs the file. He shoves it against Hank's chest.

"Read it," Bennet says. "Take him back to his cell. We'll test him later."

*****

In his office, Hank pours over Sylar's file, pulling out picture after picture. Crime scene photos. Bodies. Blood. "Christ in hell," Hank says. He throws the photos back on the table.

The digital clock on the table reads "5:13," and already the sky is beginning to lighten. Soft gray light begins to filter through the slats in the blinds, and Hank can hear the muted sounds of birds chirping and the early morning traffic from the freeway. The one good thing about Hank's office is that it's directly adjacent to the rest of Primatech Paper and therefore, an outside wall. After all, he also doubles as Primatech's Company Physician, so there's no need to hide his office along with the other company facilities.

Hank leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. He's so tired. His breathing begins to deepen, and his head rolls loosely against his chest....

There are footsteps outside Hank's office, people running. Hank opens his eyes. "Go! Go!" someone says, and Hank glances at the clock. It's almost noon.

"Shit," Hank says. More footsteps running. Hank opens the door and peers into the hallway.

Company men are swarming down the halls; the alarm lights are flashing blue and there's voices and screaming and chaos. "What's going on?" Hank asks.

"Someone was shot," the guard says, and Hank breaks into a sprint. He rounds a corner and sees Bennet on the ground, clutching Eden's body and howling into her hair.

"Oh my God!" Hank says. He rushes toward them. "Oh my God!"

There's nothing he can do. Eden's blown her brains out and Sylar is slumped over in a corner, pupils blown and diaphoretic from the sedative.

"What happened?" Hank says. He whirls around to the Company agents behind him. "What happened?"

"She killed herself," Bennet says. He sets Eden's body back down on the ground. "She didn't have a choice."

Hank makes a move to comfort him, but Bennet grabs Eden's gun and fires, again and again, at Sylar's chest. Blood seeps out from Sylar's wounds.

The gun runs out of bullets. Bennet lowers his arm.

"Get a vial of Adam's blood and give it to him," Bennet says. He tosses the gun on the ground.

They both know the blood won't work on Eden, but Hank numbly reaches for his medical kit, anyway. He's never seen Bennet lose his cool like this before--he never would have expected it from him. Not that naked grief, not that frenzied way he kept shoving bone and blood back with his hands. Hank injects her and as expected, the blood doesn't work: Eden's still dead. Hank kneels beside Sylar and pulls out another syringe.

Outside, Primatech's "real" employees gather around the parking lot, voices hushed and looking for signs of fire. The intercom blares and the announcement is made: This was a drill. Repeat, this was only a drill, and managers are dispatched to propagate the lie. Hank walks back to his office, shoulders knocking into the dozens of business suit sheep returning back to work. Even though he's on the other side, he can still hear everything that's going on in the cell. A chorus of footsteps mix with the odd half-shuffle of the medics behind the door, and Hank can't help but imagine stacks of body bags hidden behind the giant rolls of paper.


End file.
